Not very majestic, right? This was the best my local WalMart could do. I think he's kind of cute!

What’s your sign, baby?* I don’t read my daily horoscope, but I do know that I’m a Gemini, ruled by the planet Mercury, which apparently means I’m adaptable, communicative, easily bored, witty, intellectual, eloquent, scatter-brained, nervous, and tense.

That this is mostly true (I have my doubts about “intellectual”) doesn’t make me any less indifferent. To be honest, my heart belongs to the Chinese zodiac. From the story of how the 12 animals of the zodiac were selected to the yearly handover of power from one animal to the next, the antics of those 12 critters have captured my imagination the way no star sign ever could.

2012, as you may have heard, is the Year of the Dragon. Because this mighty and mystical creature is the most powerful sign of the zodiac, the year ahead will see a combination of all Four Blessings of the East: wealth, virtue, harmony, and long life. The element associated with 2012 is water, and the Water Dragon Year is expected to be a time of positive change; flowing (and possibly turbulent) like the water in a powerful stream.

Since I was born in a previous Year of the Dragon, this is my ben ming nian (本命年) (zodiac year). That means it could be a very unlucky year for me. You’d think the opposite would be true, but since one’s ben ming nian marks the beginning of another 12-year life cycle, the Chinese view it as a delicate time; a period of transition during which everything could easily go pear-shaped. (I’ve lived through several 12-year cycles — adolescence at 12, entering society at 24, maturity at 36 — and 48 is supposed to be a time of accomplishment. Not that I feel any pressure or anything. )

The dragon is an imperial symbol in China. This is the Nine Dragon Wall in the Forbidden City.

Fortunately, there’s an easy way to ward off the negative energy surrounding my ben ming nian: wearing red. It’s a very auspicious colour for the Chinese, and is especially potent if worn around the waist or on the feet. Since the only red shoes I own sport a 4-inch heel, I don’t think that’s the escape route I’m going to take. Never fear; I was told that red underwear is an acceptable alternative. Now that’s my kind of good luck charm. (I was going to post a photo of my new lucky undies… but no.)

Here’s a quick YouTube video about avoiding bad luck during one’s ben ming nian:

The dragon is the strongest sign of the Chinese zodiac, and those born in the Year of the Dragon are similarly blessed. Or so it’s said. Let’s see what kind of Dragon I really am, shall we?

Apparently, Dragons are:

Ambitious. ✗

Born leaders. ✗

Hot tempered. ✓

Attracted to risk. ✗

Compassionate. ✓

Sarcastic. ✓

Comfortable being alone. ✓

Hmmm. It would appear I’m letting down the side here. But wait! There’s one more aspect of Dragon-ness I haven’t mentioned yet. Every zodiac sign is associated with one of the five elemental signs: wood, fire, earth metal, and water. Dragons born in 1964 are Wood Dragons, which means they’re:

Flexible. ✓

Warm.  ✓

Generous. ✓

Co-operative. ✓

Outgoing. ✗

Socially conscious. ✓

Creative. ✓

Always looking for ways to grow. ✓

That sounds about right.

The Year of the Dragon holds a lot of potential. Since one of my goals this year is to find more writing work, I especially like this little prediction I found online:

Detail of one of the dragons on the Nine Dragon Wall.

Important changes could take place with work — a promotion, a shift in responsibilities or even an entirely new job. Progress might start slowly, but you can expect major shifts over time. It makes sense to go after whatever stirs your soul and piques your curiosity. You could gain a great deal just by putting yourself out there this year.

That’s great advice, no matter what year it is. But just to be on the safe side, don’t forget your red underwear.

*Cheesy pickup line, circa 1975.

What Chinese zodiac sign are you?

So, get comfortable, pour yourself a glass, and join us in saluting 2012. Many new and wonderful beginnings to all of you.

Beginnings are the best part

by Erica Knecht of Expatria, Baby

Cherry blossoms represent new beginnings.

You step off the plane not knowing what to expect, who will greet you, and within moments, you and are hit square in the jaw with a new climate. Air, thick with humidity, harbours odours strange and wonderful. This one spicy, this one pungent, and this one, wafting from around the corner, just a little bit terrible. Chaos and crowds jostling, an elbow in your ribs, a teetering bag sits atop your luggage cart, signs held by men in blank stares and white shirts announcing the names of their charges, and then the momentary flash of panic when you feel a bump and wonder if you just lost your wallet to swift fingers and you panic because it holds all your cash and you don’t know where the embassy is and how will you get there anyway because you can’t pay for a taxi, and you try to hide the panic in your eyes as you comb your fingers through your bag, and thank god, everything is right there and you can do this. You can make it. You’ll be fine.

And so you cram your baggage into the back of a dodgy taxi, and take off, weaving in and out of city streets with face pressed up against the window drinking in the newness, the dust and strange vegetation, cars driving on the wrong side of the street, road signs unintelligible, and everything is amazing but still your mind races, and you wonder what will it be like you arrive at the hotel? How will you mange? So you rehearse the greetings you hastily squeezed into your brain as you leafed through the Lonely Planet on the plane and say hello to the driver and mangle it completely but everyone still smiles, and you know that it six months you’ll have it down like it’s no biggie because you can do this.

Later, blitzed by jet lag and unable to sleep, you head for the subway, unsure of where to go, which line was it again, the green one? And you can’t seem to hold the name of the station in your mind because it is so strange and foreign and full of consonants but you want to look confident so you turn left, but oh my lands, where are you? Is this the right way? Should you ask someone? Maybe just follow the lady with the suitcase?  And so you walk, pulse in your ears, but then you find yourself and you get on the train and you arrive and your heart steadies finally and you feel good. Alive. You can do this. You can make it here. It’s going to be major.

Soon it’s dinner time and you want something you’ve never tasted before and wonder, “Am I going to regret this six hours from now?” but then you bury those thoughts and tuck in because you’re here, and it’s steaming and hot and and strange and new, so you taste it, and then you discover that the chewy bits are cow tendon but you don’t care because the broth is lusty with spice and what exactly is that flavour? It’s unlike anything and you have no idea how to recreate it in your own kitchen and it’s new new new.

Beginnings are the best part. Two or three years stretch before you like a surprise party full of people you haven’t met yet bearing presents of vistas as of yet unseen, delicacies yet to be tasted. Life is awash with possibility, fresh and dewy, not yet tempered with disappointment, routine, drudgery. Everything is awesome and everything is terrifying. The easiest of tasks, like stepping on the subway or ordering dinner or greeting a new friend are steeped in uncertainty, and you might make a misstep (or a billion) but when you finally manage, and get where you’re going or order what you wanted, you feel so powerful and worldly and accomplished. Beginnings are really the best part. And I as I lift my glass and toast 2012, I will wish you and me many many new beginnings.

1. I thought re-entry shock only affected other people. Stupid. Naïve. Maybe a little arrogant? However you want to look at it, this was a mistake. (A surprisingly common one, as it turns out.) I had read everything I could get my hands on about re-entry shock, but I assumed it applied to expats who’d been out of their passport country for years and years or had gone completely native. I’d only been gone five measly years and I took a month-long home leave every summer. Re-entry shock? Not me! Now I know that while some people have an easier time of it than others, re-entry shock is like Alcatraz: no one escapes.

2. I thought repatriation would be like home leave, only longer. Oh, please. Where did I get such a crazy idea? Before I got married, I never thought marriage would be like a honeymoon, only longer. There’s just no excuse for this one; I really should have known better.

3. I catastrophized. “I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.” “I’ll never ever do anything interesting again, as long as I live.” Catastrophizing — thinking in worst-case scenarios (or as Psych Central puts it, “striking out in your mind before you even get to the plate”) — is a type of disordered thinking that can lead you right down the rabbit hole of self-pity, hopelessness, and depression. It can also keep you from making decisions or taking action, because if every option is catastrophic, why bother? Now that I’ve regained some perspective, I can see that setbacks are a normal part of life and aren’t necessarily fatal. I’m also 80% 95% 90% sure I’m not the biggest idiot on the planet.

4. I isolated myself. It’s so easy to make friends in a large expat community. In Singapore I couldn’t go five minutes without tripping over someone new and interesting. For an introvert, I had one helluva social life. Now that I’m back home, I find it harder to connect with my old friends (they’re busy), and even harder to make new ones (I’m shy). The early days of repatriation ended up being just like the early days of expatriation: husband at work every day, kids at school every day, and me catastrophizing (see #3), brooding (see #5), and becoming increasingly isolated from my fellow humans. Now I make a point of going out and having fun with people who aren’t related to me by blood or marriage. I figure I need all the feel-good hormones I can get.

5. I brooded. Like many women (and particularly many neurotic women), I have what’s called a ruminative cognitive style. (If you know that ruminants are animals that eat food, regurgitate it, and eat it again, you’ll see where I’m going with this: Cows chew their cud, and I chew  — endlessly — on negative thoughts.) People with a ruminative cognitive style obsess over these thoughts, from every possible angle. (“I’m lazy. Why am I so lazy? How do I feel about being lazy?”) The sad thing about ruminants (of the human variety) is that they’re stuck on a merry-go-round of misery, too paralyzed by the bad to take any steps toward the good.

What a downer this post has been, eh? Before you start worrying about my mental health (sweet of you, but there’s really no need!), I want to point out that in this case, the whole truly is greater than the sum of its parts. I’ve lived every one of these 10 points — sometimes all in the same day, which is why I’m comfortable writing both “I got social” and “I isolated myself.” (Hey, I’m a complex, multi-faceted, and ever-evolving human being. Deal with it.)

One last thing: depression is rampant within expat communities all over the globe, and repatriates aren’t immune. If you spend your days thinking in catastrophic terms, isolating yourself, and brooding over your shortcomings — without the steadying balance of a shiny, upbeat list like the one I posted last week — for god’s sake, tell someone. It’s normal to feel a little melancholy during a major life transition, but a prolonged period of hopelessness and despair is a sign that something isn’t right.

To learn about the signs, causes, and treatments for depression, visit the Canadian Mental Heath Association website.

I feel right at home these days.

Today officially marks the end of the holiday season chez nous: Chef Boyardee is back at work, Younger and Elder Daughters are back at school, and Jeff and I are once again alone in a very quiet house. Jeff will spend today in typical dog-like fashion — long hours of sleep punctuated by short bursts of frenzied playing — but since the first day of post-holiday peace is traditionally when I set goals for the upcoming year, my day will be more contemplative. (Although I’m not ruling out the occasional game of fetch or prolonged tummy-rubbing session.)

I had actually intended to write about goals for 2012 today, but there’s been a change of plans. Blame Judy: last week at Expatriate Life she wrote about feeling at home again after two years of repatriation, which suddenly made me realize that I feel the same way. I’m not sure when it happened, but the angsty, Sturm und Drang feeling that’s lived in the pit of my stomach since I landed at Pearson airport several years ago has miraculously disappeared.

Judy credits several things with her turnaround, and I’m going to shamelessly rip her off with a list of my own. (Coffee’s on me next time, Judy!)

5 things I did right

1. I learned about reentry shock before I repatriated. Real estate agents have their mantra: location, location, location. Expats and repats should have their own mantra: expectations, expectations, expectations. Knowledge is power, and understanding what lies in wait can soften the blow… or at least make it a little easier to handle.

2. I took care of myself. Dealing with a major life transition takes a lot of energy; neglecting your physical health saps your strength when you need it most. I joined a gym as soon as I got back, and because I’m lazy, I hired a personal trainer to keep myself accountable. Away from the wine mecca of Bordeaux, my alcohol consumption dropped dramatically. I also tried to eat well and get enough sleep, but I drew the line at yoga. (I’m not a fan.)

3. I got social. I’m an introvert by nature, so making friends doesn’t come easily. I knew I’d have to make an effort to meet new people, and it worked: I met Rosa at tennis and I met Judy when she contacted me through my blog. With an average of ½ a friend a year, my numbers aren’t so great — I told you I wasn’t good at this! — but I also made a huge effort to see my pre-expat friends at least once a week. And I adopted a new group of friends through my volunteer work (see #5).

4. I found activities that give my life meaning. I spent my first year of repatriation finishing an MA in Intercultural Communication, and then I started looking for work. To say I struck out in my job search is a colossal understatement, but my unemployability turned out to be a blessing in disguise because it forced me to figure out what I really wanted to do. That sent me in two different but related directions:

• Remembering all the generous people who helped me adjust to expat life — especially Bérengère, Jean-Charles, and Sylvie, who gallantly corrected my French and made it feel like fun — I volunteered as an English-language mentor for a settlement agency. That was my introduction to a wonderful group of Korean ladies, and when the agency shut down, we started a coffee and conversation morning (known as K-Talk) that I look forward to every week..

• I also began writing again, testing the waters with a few articles at Suite 101 before branching out to other online sites. I created I Was An Expat Wife a year and a half ago, and what an incredible journey that has been. Best of all, scribbling for free paid off — I started getting paid gigs, and now I’ve officially hung out my shingle as a freelance writer. That’s one more item ticked off the Bucket List.

5. I accepted feelings of loss and grief as inevitable. Closing the door on expat life is like experiencing a death: you have to give yourself permission to mourn. The flip side of that — giving yourself permission to move on — is where I got a little stuck. Here’s what I learned: grief can’t be rushed, but eventually that tsunami of sorrow does begin to recede. The trick is being patient enough to let grief unfold at its own pace, hopeful enough to envision a life without it, and wise enough to know when you’ve outgrown one stage and are finally ready to embrace the other.

Coming next week: the public flogging (a.k.a 5 things I got all wrong as a repatriate.)

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 42,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 16 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

(The Sydney Opera House reference was a nice touch. I saw my very first opera — The Marriage of Figaro — there, so it has a special place in my heart.)

There’s more trivia in the report itself, but what caught my eye was the list of the top five commenters on I Was An Expat Wife over the past year. A big shout-out to:

1. Linda from Adventures in Expat Land
2. Bookjunkie from Singapore Actually
3. Judy from Expatriate Life
4. Crystal from Expat Bostonians
5. Erica from Expatria, Baby (actually tied with fellow NSEW Dispatcher Russell from In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, although for some reason Russell doesn’t make it into my fabulous annual report.)

Thanks so much to these wonderful bloggers, and to everyone who read, commented, tweeted, and otherwise reminded me why I keep putting fingers to keyboard. Wishing you all a happy, healthy, and interesting 2012.

If you’re really curious, click here to see the complete report. But I promise, my feelings won’t be hurt if you decide to pass!

• North: Linda in The Netherlands
• South: Russell in Australia
• East: Erica in Japan
• West: Me, of course, in Canada.

The December edition of NorthSouthEastWest is something very dear to our hearts. It’s the thing or things that drive us crazy as expats. This month’s theme is therefore an open invitation to have a good ole fashioned rant and is called It’s driving me round the bend!

At In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, Erica shares her (absolute lack of) love for packaging in Japan.

At Adventures in Expat Land, Russell is wondering why it’s always so flamin’ hard to get any sleep round here.

At Expatria, Baby, I’m breathing a sigh of relief that I’m free of the Expat Hierarchy.

And right here, at I Was an Expat Wife, Linda finds discomfort in discomfort.

So sit back, enjoy these four no-holds-barred posts, and look forward to a wonderful festive season wherever in the world you and yours may be!

Comfort in the crosshairs

by Linda at Adventures in Expat Land

Image credit: Seabreeze portfolio, morguefile.com

I’ll be honest with you. Sharing what really bothers me about another country or culture makes me uncomfortable.

It isn’t that I’m a Miss Goody Two Shoes who only finds the very, very best in every situation. Although I do admit that I usually try to seek the upside. I’ve always been a ‘glass is half full, not half empty’ kind of gal.

Besides, part of the challenge, excitement and fun (yes, fun) in living in a different culture is learning, appreciating,  understanding and reaching some level of acceptance.

That’s why I really cringe when I hear or read people moaning and complaining ad nauseum about this facet or that regarding the country in which they reside.

I just don’t enjoy whiners. Or people who seem to think they are superior to others.

Give me light-hearted and amusing any day, not small-minded and ranting.

Complaining about other cultures flat out grates on my nerves.

I’m not talking amusing anecdotes that poke gentle fun and provide a peek into the national psyche. And  I know that sometimes people are having a tough time and just need to vent a little. But when they kick it up several notches and get that dismissive tone it drives me crazy.

No doubt part of my discomfort lies in having been on the receiving end of some grief about being an expat in general, and my home country, nationality and ‘Americanisms’ in particular. Over time I’ve developed a thicker skin, and learned to ignore it (well, most of the time) and just let it go.

I remind myself that it says so much about the person making negative comments than it does about the people of whom they are speaking.

Besides, let’s face it. In the days heading up to Christmas, I’m not particularly motivated to work up a head of steam about whatever peeves me about living in Nederland.

All those Christmas carols playing softly in the background, the decorated tree and mantles, my all-time favorite little white lights aglow against pine boughs… ’Tis not the season for anything less than peace on earth and good will toward man.

And yet.

Sometimes I need to dig deeper, think harder. Tell the truth. Surely there are things that irritate the heck out of me or ‘send me around the bend’.

I could start with something simple, like the Dutch habit when driving on the highway of pulling their car right up almost to your rear bumper before signalling, moving over into the passing lane to overtake you, and then cutting back in right in front of you with less than a car length between.

I’m sure they think they are doing it in a nice, orderly fashion, but has anyone explained that it’s actually downright dangerous? Does no one understand the concept of needing to leave one car length between your car and the car ahead of you for every 10 miles (16 kilometres) per hour of speed you’re traveling?

Now that I’m warmed up, I can move on to the oh-so-not-endearing trait of many (not all, but enough to warrant the attention of many chroniclers of Dutch culture) Dutchies to answer only the specific question asked.

I don’t expect anyone to become a mind reader, but if a person stops to ask where a certain place is or whether the X bus is still running, when you answer (with ‘turn left at the light’ or  ‘yes’, respectively) it would be nice if you ALSO mention that the street has been closed for weeks so that the person can’t turn left or that the particular bus route in question is closing down four hours earlier that day.

Then we can do a riff on this and discuss customer service. Let’s just say it isn’t as proactive as some cultures are accustomed to.

Last week I was in a department store check out line, with my hands full and a line of seven people behind me. I noticed the young woman at the second cash register, and politely asked (in Dutch) if I could pay at that register. What I got back was ‘No, I am with a customer’ in English, and a jerk of her head in the direction of a man two aisles away checking out the selection of winter gloves.

Or take the time at an international fair for expats when the representatives of an English-language university next to our table repeatedly stood by silently while visitors spent several minutes carefully selecting program brochures they were interested in only to be told curtly as they were walking away ‘You cannot take those. Fill out a form if you want more information.’ It went on like this All. Day. Long. The hordes of irritated people who simply set down the brochures and walked away wasn’t a clue?  Seriously? That’s how you try to gain clients?

Unfortunately, these are not one-offs. (Okay, it usually doesn’t happen at my beloved Albert Heijn grocery store, but that could explain why I enjoy it there so much.) I’ve seen it all: being studiously ignored, scolded, yelled at for the most trivial of things. A soft-spoken, extremely well-mannered friend has even been on the receiving end of finger pointing. Twice.

No, if I were to be completely honest, the one thing that drives me to distraction is the Dutch tendency to state very simply and starkly whatever is on their minds. Even when the choice of words leaves much to be desired.

On  most days I can appreciate their steadfast forthrightness and bracing candor. I remind myself that they probably mean no offense, despite it feeling as if that is exactly what they mean. I know that the reason it feels that way, that it can even feel downright rude, is because of cultural differences.

And sometimes it’s just because it is rude.

But you know what really gets me? When dealing with the unholy trinity of all three: rude customer service from a curt, snippy sales person with me having to play ‘Twenty Questions’.

THAT’S when you feel as though you’re standing at the Intersection of Irritation and Offense.

Way to get my attention!

I immediately fired off a DM of my own, and the more I heard about the book, the more excited I became. And now I’m happy to tell you that @Home in Dubai, written by fellow Canuck Anne O’Connell and published by Summertime Publishing, officially launches today.

The idea of writing a settling-in guide to Dubai never crossed Anne’s mind when she first arrived in the emirate. She just did what many new expats do: emailed updates on her new life to family and friends back home. The stories she shared about trying to find her footing in such a radically different culture prompted cries of “you should write a book!” When she realized how little information was available on the subject, Anne began to seriously consider doing just that.

“Then came the ‘paying it forward’ part, which kind of comes naturally to anyone who has been an expat for a while,” Anne told me recently. “I’ve always been the type who lends a hand, and that, combined with my background as a writer and 20 years in PR, made writing a book the next logical step.” Hearing from Summertime Publishing’s Jo Parfitt that there was indeed a market for the book clinched it, and @Home in Dubai was born.

I’ll tell you this: Anne has certainly done her homework. I’ve never set foot in Dubai, but I’m pretty sure after reading this book that if I were to be parachuted in there tomorrow, I would totally ace it. It’s chock-full of concrete and sensible advice that would be invaluable to anyone considering — or having recently made — such a move.

My fellow scatter-brains will especially appreciate how well-organized @Home in Dubai is. Anne very kindly takes you by the hand and leads you, step by step, through the sometimes complicated process of setting up a new life in Dubai. Augmenting each chapter are helpful and concise mini-sections titled “The Practicalities,” “5-Step Recap,” “Tip,” “Case Studies” and “The Wrap-Up.” Also of note is the lengthy list of bloggers and tweeters who write about Dubai — a boon for anyone who has ever stared in dismay at Google’s proud declaration that their Internet search has produced 327,000,000 results. (Go ahead and google “Dubai” if you don’t believe me.)

In addition to all the practical information the book provides, Anne also points out several cultural norms, taboos, and illegalities that you should be prepared for before you arrive. “I wish I’d known that I couldn’t kiss my husband in public,” she confessed. “I’m a demonstrative person and I had to quickly curb what was a normal tendency for me!”

@Home in Dubai author Anne O'Connell

Anne and her husband recently moved to Thailand, where’s she’s putting the lessons she learned in Dubai to good use. “When we moved to Dubai I learned how important it is to recognize that things are done differently in other countries, and that patience is paramount,” she said. “Visa processes and rules and regulations vary dramatically from country to country, so doing your homework is critical. In Thailand, much like Dubai, there is a preference for doing business face-to-face. In our instant-gratification, online-driven world, that can sometimes be frustrating for Westerners, so that’s where the patience comes in.”

“I think the other important lesson I’m applying is that part of the enjoyment of the expat experience is to embrace the culture in your new country. I learned that a little late in my time in Dubai, as it’s easy to just gravitate to other expats (they are more than 80 percent of the population). I’m fortunate that I’ve made a very good friend who is Thai. Any time there’s a festival or traditional celebration, she’s calling me to ask if I want to go, and encourages me to write about it. Of course, I always say yes!”

@Home in Dubai is available from Amazon.com.

Repatriation doesn't always go as smoothly as expected.

“What can I do to make repatriation easier?”

The woman behind the question was an American expatriate — a friend of a friend of a friend  — who was about to return home after three years in Canada. We’d been chatting about Thanksgiving traditions when the conversation took this unexpected turn, catching me completely off guard.

“I keep hearing it’s going to be tough,” she went on, looking worried. “How did you handle it?”

She gazed at me expectantly, waiting for the magic bullet that would help her avoid re-entry shock and slip seamlessly back into her former existence. “Well, this is awkward,” I thought. It’s not that I didn’t have any ideas; I actually had loads of suggestions for easing into life as a repat. The problem was that the prospect of giving advice on the subject made me feel like a fraud.

See, I don’t exactly consider myself a poster child for graceful repatriation. I landed back in Canada with a jolt and proceeded to ignore all the excellent advice I’d been given about managing the transition, with predictable results. I was angry or depressed for most of the first two years, and it pains me to admit that I spent more time than was healthy wallowing in a black hole of self-pity. Definitely not my finest moment!

A few days after that conversation, I spoke with Jo Parfitt about her new novel, Sunshine Soup. Many of you know Jo as an indefatigable expert on all things expat, but this time I was more interested in hearing about her experiences as a repatriate. As usual, she didn’t disappoint. The first thing she mentioned was her certainty, when she moved back to England after a decade overseas, that her expat adventures had come to an end.

“My seven-year itch started after about year three,” she admitted with her customary humour. “By the time it got to seven years, there was nothing left to scratch it with apart from going away again.”

Did she curl up into a ball and brood over the loss of her expatriate lifestyle? Are you nuts? She jumped in with both feet and immediately set about recreating what she calls “the expat bubble” right there in her native land.

“I actively recognized the fact that I needed an international flavour — particularly, international people — in my life. I travelled a lot, went to a ton of expatriate conferences, and was involved in various expat groups. I also tried to find people living near me who either were foreign or had lived abroad. My best friends ended up being those people.”

Jo went even further, deciding to combine her two great loves: expat life and writing. It was during this period that she wrote A Career in Your Suitcase and the first edition of Forced to Fly. “I was determined to work in this expat niche, since that was what fed my soul,” she told me.

I love hearing repatriate success stories like Jo’s, because I’ve noticed that while reinvention and discovering one’s passion are common themes among expatriate women, all too often that adventurous spirit wanes when the once-intrepid explorer returns to her home shores. Why is it that so many of us neglect to pack our new and improved selves when we prepare to make this final expat journey? Why do we fall back into our old patterns, reverting to who we were instead of embracing who we’ve become?

Why does the end of expat life sometimes feel like the end of life itself?

“I think the key to repatriating successfully is to be proactive,” Jo said. “Know what you love to do and where your passions lie — and don’t be frightened to admit it.” Jo practices what she preaches, making a point of finding a writers’ circle wherever she lives — including, for those seven years, back “home” in England. “I am passionate about writing, and writers’ circles have always helped me find people who are soulmates on that level. That’s been hugely helpful.”

In the end, I told that American repat-to-be that repatriation, like all major life transitions, can be messy and confusing. I told her that grief and doubt are perfectly normal reactions, and that a little guilt over those perfectly normal reactions is likewise perfectly normal. And I told her my own story, as a cautionary tale, because knowing what not to do can come in awfully handy on occasion.

A body in motion will stay in motion; I believe the same can be said of souls. Keep moving forward, I advised her. Continue to explore, and grow, and pursue what brings you joy. I can only hope she’s better at following advice than I was.

What advice would you give someone on the eve of their repatriation?

This was my second attempt!

My mantra when I lived abroad was Try New Things. I wasn’t always successful in the trying, but I did my best, because when was I ever going to get the chance to try these things again?

I Tried New Things every day on a visit to Vietnam, but the end result wasn’t necessarily pretty. Especially the day we went to see the tunnels at Cu Chi and took a slight detour en route to visit the Rice Paper Lady.

This industrious (and very patient) woman made rice papers to sell to local restaurants. She was the living embodiment of Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hour rule: she’d been making these papers for a long time, and it showed in the nimbleness of her fingers and the easy rhythm of her work.

We watched her take a scoop of rice-and-water mixture and pour it onto a hotplate. She used the flat bottom of the scoop to spread the mixture into a perfect circle, covered the hotplate with a rattan lid for about half a minute, then used a chopstick to coax the rice paper first onto a cylinder, then onto a bamboo screen.

She made about a thousand perfectly-formed rice papers a day, eight per screen. The screens were propped up against the walls so the papers could dry in the sun, and the crackling sound they made as they fluttered in the breeze sounded like gentle rainfall.

Our guide asked me if I wanted to try my hand at paper making. I didn’t, because it looked easy — a sure indication it was going to be damn hard. But I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of my children, so I accepted the offer with what I hoped looked like genuine enthusiasm.

You can see the results in the video below. The poor lady was quite agitated at the sight of the mangled and misshapen blobs I produced. After making two of the saddest looking rice papers known to mankind, I slunk out of there with my tail between my legs.

My clear unsuitability for rice paper making aside, two things made it a memory I’ll always cherish. First, it was actually more fun than I expected, and we laughed hard that day. (My ineptitude made for a lot of good-natured teasing on the drive to Cu Chi.) Second, I had Tried a New Thing, and that’s always good.

Perhaps with another 9,999¾ hours of practice, my efforts might have turned out differently. I think the Rice Paper Lady would have collapsed under the strain long before that point, though, so I’m quite happy to have left the work in her expert hands.

The weather is glorious at the moment. The sun is shining, the air is crisp, and the leaves — all decked out in their autumn finery — are nothing short of spectacular. Walking down the street, breathing in the bracing fall air and listening to the satisfying crunch of fallen leaves underfoot, I feel a sense of poignancy for this, Nature’s last hurrah before the winter arrives.

I wrote those words two weeks ago — the only snippet I managed to complete of a post that’s been knocking around in my brain for several weeks. I was planning to segue from that paragraph into my ambivalence toward living in a climate that cycles through all four seasons. But you know how it is — life got in the way, and I never got beyond that grudging sense of appreciation for the gorgeous display of colours that greeted me as I walked out of my house every day.

Still, that was then, this is now. A lot can happen in 14 days. The temperature plummeted 10 degrees, for instance, flirting with the digits on the wrong end of the thermometer. Daylight Savings Time ended, plunging my world into darkness before I’ve even finished making dinner. The trees, so awe-inspiring a scant couple of weeks ago, look gaunt and stark now that they’ve dropped most of their leaves.

While the calendar is under the impression that winter doesn’t start for a full month yet, the frost on my car this morning thumbs its icy nose at such conventional thinking.

Part of the allure of moving to Singapore was the chance to escape the cold. The intense heat and humidity was a shock to the system at first, but once I’d adjusted to living in a sauna, I was thrilled by the tropical weather. I assumed Chef Boyardee felt the same, so I was gobsmacked when he dropped his bombshell.

We were relaxing by the pool, shaded from the blazing sun by a canopy and watching the children splashing about like happy little fish. The temperature was between 28 and 30 degrees, just as it had been every day since we’d arrived almost a year before. A bead of sweat was lazily making its way down my back.

“It’s fall now,” Chef Boyardee said.

“Mmmm.” I was in a heat-induced stupor and didn’t have the energy to even pretend I was paying attention.

“It’s fall,” he repeated. “But you can’t tell one season from the next here. I miss that.”

I stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

“It gets kind of boring after a while, don’t you think?” he said. “There’s no variation in the weather — it’s always the same. There’s no need for hot chocolate, or cool leather jackets, or cosy nights by the fire.”

“No need for snow shovels, or long underwear, or flu shots,” I countered, shaking my head and thinking (not for the first time) that I’d married a man who was clearly insane.

“I miss the change of seasons,” he said, and turned his attention back to the sunscreen he was applying to his chest.

For the record, there are two seasons in Singapore: hot and wet, and hotter and dry. But even though I felt not the slightest trace of nostalgia for the four I’d left behind, I’ve since come to understand what Chef Boyardee meant. I love the summer and loathe the winter, but I’d forgotten the charms of the seasons in between.

I’d forgotten how wonderful it is to see the crocuses poke their heads out of the snow as winter turns to spring, and to breathe the fresh, earthy scent that heralds the season of rebirth. To see the trees budding and hear the geese brashly announcing their return from their winter down south. To finally stow coats, scarves, and mittens at the back of the closet and expose our pasty skin to the sun’s rays once again.

Fall, as I mentioned several hundred words ago, has a beauty and dignity all its own. The days may get shorter and the air may get chillier, but hey — this weather is perfect for wearing the fab-u-lous boots I got last weekend. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with these beauties in Singapore.

So I’m on board with three out of the four seasons. How do you feel about the seasons where you live?